


We Two Entwined

by segfault



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Angst, First Meetings, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Series, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/segfault/pseuds/segfault
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A student healer, and a girl who just wants to be healthy. Or: Rosethorn has always had a soft spot for birds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Two Entwined

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lastwingedthing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastwingedthing/gifts).



"Dedicate Oakvine said there's only one more waiting. You take her, I'll start packing up. Assuming you're even in there at all." This last was punctuated with a sharp rap on the door.

With effort, Rosethorn shook herself free of her thoughts, blinking rapidly as though to draw the world back into focus. The healing room was pleasant in a shabby sort of way, yellow-stained walls warmly lit by slanting swaths of late afternoon sun. Her chair dug into her back and squeaked when she moved, physical annoyances that grated in a comfortingly familiar way. 

She was okay.

More importantly, she was hardly about to show weakness in front of Crane, of all people.

"I hear you," she said, after just a moment. "One more. Send her in."

Too well-bred to grumble, Crane's only response from the other side of the door was a measure of silent judgment.

Only when she was sure he had gone did she allow herself a full-body shudder, releasing the ring she clutched, feeling the sensation flood back into her fingers as she struggled to grasp her pen from the inkwell. They were to keep careful logs of their patients, but she'd been struggling for words since her last one had left. "Nothing to be done," she wrote finally. "Infection too far progressed." Oakvine had taken a look and dismissed him as a lost cause, but Rosethorn in all of her wisdom, two years a student, hadn't believed it, had needed to feel for herself, trace with her magic the shape of the rot spread deep into his lungs, grasping for purchase as hungrily as any digging root. Even now, the phantom sensation of it made her throat itch, her chest feel tight. 

"Patient aware of prognosis. Giving away possessions," Rosethorn finished, and put the pen back. She studied the ring on her desk with dread it did not merit: a simple band, of dark, tarnished metal. Its owner had left the clinic on his own feet, but she knew she would never see him alive again, nor know when he had finally passed, and that lent the thing a morbid air. She had never lost a patient before.

"You have a duty," she said to herself fiercely, and forced herself to pick it back up. She could never wear the thing, but maybe she would carry it with her, stitched into her habit. A reminder of what she worked for, or maybe what she worked against.

There came a light knock, before the door opened shyly. Rosethorn shut the log book, tucked the ring away hastily—she hadn't said to come in. But her last patient was coming in: a tall, slender girl not much older than herself, with a feline grace to her stride and a small, sharp face to match. "Hi, I'm Lark," and she held out her hand. She didn't look like she'd been on the streets long. Her clothes seemed well-made, as far as Rosethorn could tell. They were of a fashionable cut, not a tear or a fray to be seen, and she even smelled fairly clean in comparison, by this point in the day. What's more, she looked perfectly healthy. 

Puzzled, Rosethorn took the hand—slender fingers, fairly soft skin, strong grip. "What can we do for you, Lark?"

"Well, I—" Lark hesitated. She flitted to the chair opposite Rosethorn's with a quickness that matched her name. "I wasn't sure if I should come, if you could help me, but I heard... I mean. There's... There's something with my lungs— Oh no, goodness and Onini watch my mouth, are you all right? Did I say something wrong?" 

Rosethorn hadn't thought she'd reacted visibly to that, but Lark was leaning in, eyes full of concern. She jerked back instinctively, the chair gave a severe croak like a reprimand, and Lark withdrew, abashed.

"It's nothing." Searching for a professional tone, she couldn't help but clear her throat uncomfortably. "Let me take a look," she said, though she almost wished the girl would refuse. 

No such luck. She settled a hand on Lark's shoulder, and closed her eyes. Customarily, she envisioned herself as a root, but gave up that imagery with a shudder. She'd be a green stem then, with leaves, and buds. The hanging trellis of a weeping willow, a gentle curtain sweeping in the breeze: feeling all, invading nothing.

"Tell me why you think there's something wrong," said Rosethorn after a while, eyes still closed. 

"Maybe there's nothing now." The vibration of Lark's voice sent a pleasant murmur through her leaves. "It's only when I... You know what, let me show you."

Without further ado, Lark stood, stretched her arms up, and didn't so much flip backwards as flow, as though pouring herself from one position to another. And it wasn't like Rosethorn hadn't seen tumblers before: at the midsummer fair, every year, and here she'd found a few times to go even while busy at university. But this was something entirely different. There was a graceful line to Lark's body that glided smoothly, deliberately, from one move to the next, arching, or curving, or—when she flowed abruptly into a headstand—perfectly straight, mischievous smile upside-down. Then she jackknifed her legs and found her feet and leaped and coughed and leaped again, and then that graceful line was crumpling as though it had never been, consumed by body-wracking coughs that shook and folded her.

Rosethorn hastily ran next door for water, which she pressed into Lark's hands. Her patient sipped breathlessly, while Rosethorn provided a couple awkward pats on her back. Six months of this, and she still didn't feel like much of a healer. From even that brief contact, she could feel the difference in Lark's lungs, angrily inflamed, airways narrow and constricted.

"We used to travel all over," said Lark, once the cup was empty, "our audience made of up of any and every type of person, from every ocean and continent. Not too long ago, I started losing my breath doing the most basic acts. That one, I learned when I was four." She handed Rosethorn back the cup, but didn't meet her gaze. "I had to stop performing."

There was nothing Rosethorn could say. She saw it clearly: a life-long career brought to an abrupt halt. Left behind in an unknown city when her performing troupe moved on, she would have had no other options left to her, which was why she was here, wasn't she, at a clinic for the poor and homeless, a last resort. 

"So? Is there anything you can do for me?"

In answer, Rosethorn got out her bag. She didn't have to reach far to find the names drilled into her by rote memory. "Crushed lobelia," she produced a vial of powder that retained the vivid purple of the flower's petals at high bloom. "And common bishop's weed. Chew these leaves twice a day. Put the powder in any water you drink. Or a pinch on your tongue before drinking is fine too. These should help with the discomfort."

Lark took the remedies and smiled at her without much hope. "I take it that means there isn't anything?"

"I'll tell you what," said Rosethorn. All of a sudden, she could hear her previous patient again, that tortured, hacking cough. She wanted to say that what Lark had wasn't so bad: that, properly managed, it shouldn't interfere with her quality of life. That was the answer you gave to nobles, who could afford to sit and rest, not to a poor girl who'd already lost her entire life and livelihood to it, and could only pray for it to go away. "Dedicate Oakvine and the rest of us will be back in a week. Why don't you try this, and let us know how you feel? If all goes well, maybe we'll never have to see you again."

"If all goes well, I'll come finish the dance for you," Lark promised, and coughed again.

* * *

They saw her again. 

Lark quickly became a regular. The three of them served one afternoon a week, and so Rosethorn saw her once a week, usually at the very end of the day, when Lark could be sure that those in worse condition had already gotten the attention they needed. Lark didn't knock anymore, and sometimes she stayed to talk while Rosethorn cleaned up for the day. They talked a lot, on those visits, of Lark's life before—exotic countries, the food and culture, and new moves to be learned there—and Rosethorn's life now—exams, and studies, and stealing away to the gardens when she thought she could get away with it.

"So I heard your name was Rosethorn," said Lark one day, to which Rosethorn could only offer a puzzled look in response. "You've never told me. I had to ask for you today."

Rosethorn, busy looking over the girl she was ever more possessively considering _her_ patient, offered a distracted, "oh, I didn't realize." Lark looked healthy as usual, which was, as usual, a relief.

"That's perfect," said Lark, eyes glowing. "I just knew it."

"You knew what?"

"I mean, I didn't know it was your name, but I knew it was right for you. Look what I got you."

Lark tossed her something that twirled and glinted in the air, and Rosethorn caught it reflexively against her breast. It was a small amulet or pin: a red rose picked out in chips of garnet, against a gold setting. 

"You're always giving me medicine," Lark explained. "I thought I should get something for you too."

"This is amazing," said Rosethorn, startled, tracing the outline with a thumb. The craftsmanship was fine, finer than anything she'd seen before. "Where did you..." And it finally clicked. "Lark, you... you _took_ this. You're a thief."

"A pickpocket," Lark corrected, smile vanishing as if stolen. 

Rosethorn instantly felt ashamed. How did she think Lark was providing for herself? There was a reason they never talked about Lark's life, only her past. 

"A pretty good pickpocket, at that," Lark added, without any hint of a boast. "Better than I was a tumbler, I think."

"That doesn't mean—" Rosethorn stopped, as Lark circled around her, eyes sharp.

"Their clothes tell me where their valuables are. They never rustle or betray me when I'm reaching for my prize." Then Lark smiled again, mischief back in her eyes. "I just took something from you."

At Rosethorn's confused look, Lark opened her hand. There, on her palm, was a tarnished metal ring.

"How did you—?" Rosethorn grabbed for it, not so much possessive as needing to confirm for herself. "That was— I sewed it into my pocket. There's no way you could have taken it."

"It was open." Lark bent over the pocket of Rosethorn's habit, and plucked a loose thread. "Look, your stitches came out."

Even holding the ring solidly between her fingers, Rosethorn couldn't help staring at it like a ghost. "It's held this whole time."

"It's probably been coming apart this whole time. Oh, don't look at me like that. If I knew how, I'd help you sew it back together, but I only know how to steal, so at least be glad I caught it for you before someone else did. So, what is that anyway?"

"You probably don't want to know."

But Lark looked as curious as the cat she resembled.

"I got it from one of my patients," said Rosethorn reluctantly. "He's probably... No, he's almost certainly dead by now. The first one I lost." There had been more.

"This really wears on you, doesn't it?" Lark studied the thread in her fingers, as though thoroughly engrossed.

"Being responsible for all these lives would wear on anyone, I'd think." And these were not just any lives. Many of her patients had no one else to care for them, or even about them. Sometimes Rosethorn felt like the first word of comfort, the first kind touch, any of them had experienced in years. That did not make it any easier.

"Whenever I see you looking so tragic, I just know something went wrong with one of your patients." Lark knotted the thread, and then untied it again with nimble fingers. "It makes me wonder why you do this. Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"Oakvine is the finest green mage and healer at Lightsbridge. Who else would I study with, if not her?" Lark looked unconvinced, and Rosethorn could only think that she didn't understand. "All my life, my magic has been for other people." Her father, who'd loved having a mage more than having a daughter—Lark's current living situation wasn't the only topic they dodged around. Rosethorn had carefully avoided any mention of her past, her family. But that was over with. "Now I'm finally studying at the University of Lightsbridge. Now I can finally learn about my magic, practice it, make the most of it. Of course it's going to be hard."

"It sounds to me like you're still using your magic for other people," said Lark, oh so gently, "For this Oakvine, just because she's the best. She may be the best healer at the university, but is this really what you want to be learning? You should be around growing things, living things... not sick, dying things."

"Do you really think me so selfish? You're my patient. Who am I to complain about doing what I can?" Suddenly reminded, Rosethorn found the vials she'd prepared for Lark—she brought a new set every week now.

"I'm hardly dying," said Lark, swapping them with the empty containers from last week. Their hands brushed briefly. "Thanks to you, I'm feeling lots better."

"I still want to help people. I want to help..." you. Rosethorn looked away. "Healing is the most noble profession there is."

"I happen to think every profession is noble. Growing, stitching. Thieving." Lark smiled. The medicine was already nowhere to be seen. 

"It's something to think about," Rosethorn admitted. The thought had an undeniable pull to it: being able to spend her days in the garden, there to stay rather than just to steal a moment with the good, green things that grew from the earth. 

"At least stop carrying that ring with you," Lark said. "I'm starting to think it was a good thing those stitches came undone."

"Hmm. Creepy?"

"Creepy."

Rosethorn held back a grin. "I'll see you next week."

**Author's Note:**

> Rosethorn will always continue to provide medical care to the poor (cf. Circle of Magic book #3). One day Lark will realize why pockets always seem so easy to pick.


End file.
